Dull People
by Great Gomerel
Summary: YOU may think Pete & Addison are 'cute,' but Tillie finds them painfully boring. PeteAddison.


"Dull People." Not mine. K+/PG. YOU may think Pete & Addison are 'cute,' but Tillie finds them painfully boring. Pete/Addison.

(Short and nonsensical. I'm spelling character names based on what they've got at IMDB for "The Other Side of This Life.")

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Sometimes, in the dregs of her crusty, world-weary heart, Tillie wonders if the two of them aren't... dragging it out a little. Just to torture her.

If they are, it's unnecessary. Her life's _already_ an endless stream of boredom. Except, that is, when it's chock full of frustration and dissatisfaction with, well, _people._ Because those few times when the passengers of the Oceanside Wellness Elevator aren't spouting gibberish (aggrandizingly-labeled "small talk"), they're generally busy being _stupid_. God, Tillie hates stupid people. And, truth be told, though she loves them both dearly, Pete and Addison are only entertaining about ten percent of the time. With the rest of their sad antics, they kind of make her want to tear her hair out. (She doesn't, of course, because she's pushing fifty and her hair's starting to fall out. Have to conserve what's left—you understand.)

Individually, they're just fine. Pete's always had a warm spot in her heart. He's a bit smarmy and self-satisfied, sure, but behind the swagger and the overdone charm, there's a genuinely kind human being there. Not that many people take the time and effort to be friendly with the security staff. When he's by himself, he always says hi and has a story for her: a mix-up with his morning coffee, a new shipment of stainless-steel needles from Japan, or a wink from the girl behind the check-out counter at Fresh Choice. Small talk, she finds, is much more palatable when she's participating in it. Plus, he knows the name of her daughter. And he always sends his best to her hubby, who thinks Pete's this old, pot-bellied Santa Claus figure.

She hasn't undeceived the poor fellow. But in all seriousness: a man of Pete's age who looks like _that?_ Please. They don't have to _pay_ her to stare at his mug all day. (No offense to the hubby, who's a sweetheart—but she's already seen him naked, so there's no mystery left. A gal's gotta have dreams, right?) She'll freely admit that the lanky frame and toothy smirk may have biased her, a bit, when it comes to assessing Pete's character.

She's got no such bias when it comes to Addison. And the redhead is rapidly growing on her. Oh, she thought the woman was crazy at first. A freak of the first order. But having seen her in other settings, now (read: around other people), she'll acknowledge that Addison's pretty normal in _most_ of her human interactions. Dignified and gracious, even. But all that falters when she's alone, and it goes to hell the second Pete joins her.

Tillie's inclined to be generous to the newcomer, if only because of that odd little apology she delivered, back when she though Tillie was a figment of her imagination. It was sweet, really. Other folks—who _knew_ Tillie was real—hadn't always been so considerate. Now that she knows Tillie's real, Addison isn't quite as chatty as her gentleman friend, but she unfailingly offers a polite, "Good morning," when she enters an empty elevator. Sometimes, if the woman seems down, Tillie whips out the pop psychiatrist and offers to hear her out on what's bugging her. Most of the time Addison just rolls her eyes and says it's her being stupid—she'll work it out—and not to worry. But sometimes she'll let Tillie in on a small concern or two: Naomi's depressed and she doesn't know how to help her friend, or she finds Dell's half-naked parade a little unprofessional but doesn't want to offend anyone by mentioning it.

As to the rest? Well, Tillie considers any conversations she may have had with Pete or Addison about the other to be… confidential. So scram.

Now what they say _to_ each other, when they know perfectly well someone's listening, is another matter altogether. It's _excruciatingly_ painful, and misery loves company, so she's happy to share.

"Is that… In 'N Out you're holding?" Pete's easily grossed-out by some stuff.

"3x3, Animal style. Plus a chocolate shake and fries." Addison smacks her lips and holds the bag out. "Want some?"

He takes a step back. "Do you have some kind of _death_ wish, Addison?"

"Oh, shut up, quack." She turns her nose up and looks in the other direction, the way she always does when she's trying not to smile at him. "I'm a real doctor—I can manage my own risk of heart disease, thank you very much."

"But I'm a vegetarian. If you've got ground beef stuck in your teeth, I can't kiss you with tongue!" He's leering, and his eyes are clearly focused her lips. His own are slightly parted.

She's watching his mouth, too, but her voice is coldly snobby. "So go find some hippie girl to make out with. I'm obviously too much of a woman for you to handle."

He shakes his head, and then a beat later it registers: she just called him a girl. (Real men eat beef.) Now he's glaring at her…

…and Tillie's sure he'd come up with an equally bad retort, but thankfully the door opens and some somber-looking patients crowd their way in. She's not sure how much more of this bad dialogue she can handle. Flirting is like whale-watching, she reckons: you just had to have been there. Sound and picture aren't enough. It's still underwhelming and deathly dull.

Sex, however, translates fabulously—both on-screen and in-person. She's not a pervert, or anything, but she's willing to acknowledge that a little of _that_ would liven things up considerably.

When they're not spewing gibberish, they're actually quite fun. They seem almost _compatible._ Sometimes, when watching, she mutes the sound on her monitor. (She's not supposed to for security reasons, but whatever. Sanity comes before job performance.) Then it's just a series of cute little sideways glances and suppressed smiles. Addison ducks her head in embarrassment. Pete leans in so his breath tickles her ear when he whispers something. Both take turns at disdain, disgust, self-congratulation, and a kind of grudging appreciation. Pete tries not to say what's on the tip of his tongue. Addison tries not to give away that she wants to hear it.

But they never touch. Tillie gathers that it's some kind of "not-horny" elevator rule that they've both agreed upon, for whatever dumb reason. Plus, you know, the fact that they're not dating. And don't "like" each other. And are not-their-types and damaged goods and too-busy… plus off-limits based on promises to friends, now regretted. Not that you heard any of that from _her_. She's a trustworthy confidant.

Yeah, Tillie's pretty sure that other elevators see better action. God, her life is boring. It's enough to make her think, sometimes, that maybe she should move to Seattle.

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A/N: I know this device will shortly be the bane of fanfic readers everywhere. It is the epitome of cliché. But darnit, I wanted credit for being _first_ to take the cheap bait. So there.


End file.
